


Lux Brumalis

by sith_shenanigans



Category: Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bad Ending, Other, now it's something else, or at least that's how it started
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 10:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19972297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sith_shenanigans/pseuds/sith_shenanigans
Summary: In which Sidestep is almost certainly probably dead, Loren mostly gives up on keeping secrets, and Null doesn't like to lose.Or: why a set of telepathically linked rat brains and a woman who doesn't exist might be the Plan's only hope.





	Lux Brumalis

It takes a few seconds for her to get the mask off. But she does.

It takes a few seconds for her to realize. But she does. 

“…Loren?” she asks, when her mouth can finally do more than shape the word.

“In some senses,” you half-rasp, rubbing at your throat with one hand. The first thing that comes to mind—it’s so much easier to focus on your body than her face—is how much worse it’s going to hurt later.

But there’s not going to be a later.

Not this time.

Julia is quiet again for far too long, just thinking. Her face is blank, and—frankly, it’s unfair. You’ve undoubtedly just shattered her heart into little bits; the last thing she should be right now is unreadable. Shouting, snarling, just pumping you full of lightning until the remnants of your suit give out and your heart follows them down…

Those would make sense, at least. Not like the silence.

You’d be filling it yourself, but you don’t know what to say this time. You’ve been working on her over weeks and months, sinking your fingers into her doubts and pulling them to the surface like stones through so much fine sand—as Null in your little head games on the battlefield, as Loren the worried and retired, even as Morgan, but it’s not enough it’s not _enough_ you’re _not done yet_ —

The static in her mind throws you back in just over a second, and you fight the urge to close your eyes against the wave of nausea that comes with you. Even desperation can’t carry you through that haze of signals; you’re not sure why you tried.

(Did you actually mean to?)

In lieu of shaking your head to clear that thought—you’re fairly sure the vertigo would leave you regretting it—you lean back against the rubble. How long has it been? She still hasn’t spoken. 

Maybe that’s her way of tormenting you: letting this drag out, with just your own thoughts and your failure. It’s the kind of morally upright punishment that heroes on TV and in the movies just love; of course, you know she’s smarter than that. She’s only an idiot when it comes to…

Well. 

You. 

But not that much of one.

Only enough that you know she’ll pick now to stop, to backpedal, to throw everything you’ve told her out as—hell. As just lies and manipulations. And there have been plenty of those, but haven’t you been honest in the important ways? In all the ways you could?

Probably not. But that’s still the part that hurts worst: with you gone, it will be a miracle if she ever cuts herself free. 

The thought makes your blood chill in a way you didn’t know you still had in you. You expected this—you should have expected this—you knew you’d lose her—

You just didn’t actually believe you’d _lose_. 

“I’m sorry, Julia,” you say, before you can stop yourself. _The government can’t have you_ , you don’t. Even you can hear how possessive it sounds; you’re not that far gone. But you still can’t banish it from the tip of your tongue. It wants to be said, the tempting catharsis of letting everything out at once—but you’re not the usual sort of villain, damn it, and you’re not going to break down like one. “I know that doesn’t count for anything,” you add, when she still doesn’t speak. “But it’s true.” You close your eyes. “There’s no point in lying to you anymore.”

You can hear her swallow, and the metal-against-concrete noise that follows it is probably her kicking your helmet down the street. Then the static draws nearer, and…

You flinch as something closes around your chin, and look up to see her cupping your face in her hands. “Mierda,” she mutters, pressing a finger against your swollen cheek. “Loren, you _idiot_.”

That’s your line. You choke down an entirely unwanted chuckle, the noise dying a bloody death in your throat. “It seems so,” you say instead, “now doesn’t it?” You really did think you were clever enough to pull this off, stringing along half the city in your threefold masks. But you thought you were clever enough to win against Heartbreak, too.

It looks like nothing’s really changed. 

Julia draws in a sharp hiss of breath as she looks you over, then shakes her head. “I should have realized…” She cuts herself off with a sharp, bitter laugh. “No wonder you knew how to get to me,” she says. “Telepathy or not, you always could find your way into my head.”

Don’t you wish. “I meant what I said at the museum,” you half-snap before you can stop yourself. You immediately wish you remembered that conversation better—it’s a bit of a blur in places. 

“You meant that I’m a government stooge?” Julia says dryly. “Reassuring.”

“Well,” you say. Your lips pull back into a hollow half-grin. “You kind of _are_ , Jules.” This is familiar territory, for better or for worse, though there’s a strange cognitive dissonance to it. Your personas were never supposed to collide like this, and you’re not entirely certain which one is left. “They stuff you full of lightning and metal, you do their dirty work. It’s a simple arrangement.” You can’t help but sweep a glance over her face, admiring the line of her jaw. “Doesn’t hurt that you’re so photogenic.” 

Her expression is nothing short of disgusted. “Flirting, now? Really?”

“Wouldn’t be the first villain you’ve engaged in a little _friendly banter_ with,” you purr, “now would it?”

“Yes, well,” Julia says, “the others didn’t try to convince me they cared about me.” A snarl is tugging at the corners of her mouth, trying to spread across her face. “It’s a little more personal this time.”

“I _do_ care about you,” you say, with a faint scowl of your own. “As Loren, anyway. I always have.” You press your lips together for a moment. “I don’t know what Null cares about. The mission, I suppose.” 

Hell, are you actually breaking down this much? Maybe not. Maybe you’re just slipping back into Loren’s role now that their face is on display, playing up all your broken parts to tug at her sympathies. 

It probably won’t help—you’re plummeting far too fast, now, to have a prayer of softening the landing. But it’s a nice thought, comparatively. 

“The mission.” Julia pronounces the words slowly and distastefully, like she can barely believe they exist and doesn’t particularly want to. 

“Oh, yes.” Your grin is back, suddenly, emptier than ever. “You didn’t think I was doing this for nothing, did you?” You let your head drift down towards one shoulder, looking up at her through half-lidded eyes. “And after I took the time to _monologue_ at you, too. I wouldn’t do that for just anyone, Charge.” 

That’s not quite right.

“Julia,” you add. 

Better.

“The mission,” she says again, this time quiet and tired. “Against the _government_?”

You lift your hands, miming a shrug. “It’s not going to bring _itself_ down.”

“Sometimes I wonder about that,” she mutters, her gaze drifting away. It snaps right back a moment later, trying to recover the steely look she’d briefly lost. “But that’s not the point. You’ve been lying to me—to us,” she amends, “playing around in powered armor, terrorizing the people of Los Diablos—”

“I was never playing.” Your voice is flat. “This isn’t a game.”

“I just—I don’t understand you,” Julia continues, with a viciousness that almost seems self-directed. “Whatever it is, whatever the hell made you do this, you could have come to us. To the Rangers. To… to me. You _know_ that.” Her voice is rising, filled with a desperate urgency. “What were you _thinking_ , Loren?” 

You’re quiet for a moment, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to explain that.  
It’s just too damned _big_ , that’s the problem. It’s your whole life, summed up as a reason for that final conclusion. As if it was a single choice, a single instant where you broke and _fell, from grace out of a window just fell and fell and **you keep falling**_ —

You force yourself back to reality with a start. No, you tell yourself, you’re not there anymore. You’re here and now, and you’re the only one in your head.

You’re here and now, with your failure and this descending curtain call.

It’s still an improvement from then. 

You reach up to comb a hand through your hair, frizzy and tangled for being left in the same braid for a week, and push a few strands out of your face with a sigh. “Okay,” you say. “Help me get these clothes off.”

“Your _clothes_ —” She shakes her head. “You have spectacularly bad timing, have I ever told you that?”

“Usually the opposite, actually.” You can’t help but smile wanly at the glare she gives you. “I have a reason, I promise. But you need to see it to understand.”

“No.” She presses her lips together for a moment, her frown a thin line. “I don’t feel like playing along right now. You can tell me, or you can show us all when you’re in custody.”

“Can you…” You bite down on your cheek, briefly silent as you taste the blood. “Can you please pretend you still trust me for just five more seconds?”

“Loren—”

“For old times’ sake,” you add, interrupting her. “In memory of Sidestep.” And it’s so, so hard not to laugh at that, at the idea Sidestep’s memory means _anything_ anymore—

But it means something to her.

You can use that.

“Call it their last request,” you say, and you look up at her like you did before—back when you were young, and naïve, and almost believed she could save you. Like she’s everything you have. 

Another pause.

“Fine,” she eventually says. “But that’s it. That’s all you get.”

It’s more like five minutes before she gets you down to the skinsuit. The way she touches you is almost clinical—it’s like she can’t decide whether to handle you as roughly as possible or as gently, and has settled for just doing it as little as she can.

When it’s over, she pulls the armor into a loose pile beside her. She turns the nanovore arm over in her hands, looking thoughtful, and you can’t help but lean forwards a little bit. “Be careful…”

She gives you a sharp glance. “You’re not getting any of this back.”

You shrug. “Figured as much,” you say, tipping your head in a vaguely conciliatory way. It responds by pounding, and you sigh and prop it up against one hand. “Be careful anyway.”

She snorts. “With what I went through to damage that suit _this_ much,” she says, waving the glove-and-armpiece at you illustratively, “I’m not sure I could break this if I tried.”

“No, but it might break you,” you say. And then, because the Rangers will find out soon enough anyway, “Neutered or not, there are still nanovores in there.”

“ _Mierda_!” She drops the glove like it’s a live grenade—though a grenade would probably be less dangerous. “You complete—you’ve been _wearing_ —”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” you cut her off, a Null-esque rasp slipping into your voice. It’s no substitute for the vocal distorter in your helmet, but there’s a painful satisfaction in seeing the look she gives you in response. “They’re defanged. Inorganic material only.” You loll your head back and close your eyes again, suddenly unable to meet hers. “I just happen to know that you’ve got quite a bit of that in you. And where you keep it, for that matter.” 

“You…” Julia bites something back. “You promised an explanation,” she says instead. “Five seconds were up a while ago.”

“So I did,” you agree. No hiding from it now. “Just a moment longer,” you add, already pulling your arms out of the skinsuit’s gloves, “and you’ll have your answer.” 

It takes no time at all to roll it down to your waistline. It takes no time at all to shatter your last mask, bare your last secrets—all except the existence of Morgan, you suppose. Maybe you can escape to her for good, after this, leave them a comatose body whose mind has long since flown. But Morgan isn’t a telepath, Morgan has no powers—or does she? You remember a game of quantum roulette you should never have won, in between your pounding heartbeats, and not for the first time wonder what would happen if your body died while you were in another’s. 

Would you follow it immediately, or try to return and find yourself lost in that dark space of nonexistence?

It doesn’t matter right now. 

What matters is this: your torso is bare aside from a sports bra, and now Julia can see can _see you_ —and you really are panicking now, you realize in a faraway sort of way, because _she is not supposed to see_.

Your hands are shaking.

She is not supposed to see this. But you can’t stop her. You can’t stop her, and so she keeps on seeing. 

All the scars. All the things they can’t cover, hazard-tape orange against your skin.

It’s all out in the open, now.

She pulls back from you immediately, looking at you like a foreign thing, and you wish you’d taken this secret to your grave after all, because—

In this moment, she _hates_ you. 

You don’t need to read her mind to know that. It’s filling up her eyes, the streetlight-shine caught in them suddenly a harsh gleam. “A Re-Gene,” she mutters under her breath, and there’s so much venom in the word that you can taste it. “Then that means…” Julia sets her jaw, scowling. “What happened to the real Loren?”

You could tell her the Farm killed them. 

It might work. It would be hard to disprove, since most of the evidence to the contrary is evidence they could fabricate. It’s hard to prove that one _didn’t_ finish off a single severely wounded telepath, if cloning is already assumed to be on the table. She’d probably kill you, but you’ve failed anyway—if there’s even a chance she’d take up your mission, that’s better than the certainty of it slipping away you have now. And she’s angry, angrier than you’ve ever seen her before; she _wants_ revenge. She wants it already, and she’s just waiting for you to tell her where to get it.

You can’t lie to her like that again.

“There never was one,” you say, a bitter resignation sinking into your bones. That’s it, then—the end. Story over. “Just me. Sorry.”

Another glorious triumph for the Rangers. 

You don’t quite notice yourself reaching out until you brush against the first wave of accessible minds. Normal people, mostly, doing what normal people do in the later pre-midnight hours—sleeping, finishing up the night’s work, eating dinner. 

What are you doing? You can’t escape. 

But you’re not actually trying to, are you?

You ignore Julia tensing in front of you, and brush your hands (their hands) across the thoughts of a night shift janitor cowering behind a fire escape at the other end of the street. 

_just_

— _ **sleep**_ , you think, rapidly switching out the word on the tip of your tongue. He needs to sleep. He needs to sleep _right now_ , and don’t worry it will all be alright in the morning, the Rangers are here and the villain is contained, or maybe it was all a nightmare in the first place? He should go to sleep, and find out.

Far away, Julia’s hands close around your wrists. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because—

 _just fall_

—because you’re falling through a window, surrounded by a halo of broken glass, and it’s too late to catch you now. 

“Loren,” she says, and it feels strange to hear the name. Why is she still using it? Doesn’t she understand what you are now? She gives your body a gentle shake. “Loren! Loren, get back here, I don’t know what you think you’re doing…”

You try to tell her. But you still can’t break through the static, so you move on; staying near her makes you feel like throwing up. Or coming back down. And you won’t do that, you _can’t_ do that—she doesn’t understand. 

Down there you’ve _lost_.

You can’t lose again. 

Julia’s grip tightens. She stands up and she takes your body with her, dragging it up into her arms. It doesn’t matter any more than anything else she does. She’ll have to kill you to stop you, and she’s not ready to do that, and no matter how hard she pulls you around by the wrists she can’t touch your strings.

(not your puppet,) you think, viciously, and open your eyes a block away in the body of a single mother coming home from her second job. Her memories are at your fingertips, a study in duty and determination and a grim kind of love. She has never willingly injured someone in her life, never even thrown a punch, and she is so perfect yes she is exactly what you need. Charge won’t want to hurt a civilian. Charge will see her and Charge will _hesitate_ and then you will get the glove back and you will win. 

You have to win. That’s what she can’t realize—you all lost that day, but she only lost a friend and (you can’t say it) and her position. You lost in your own mind and you should have been cleverer but you have learned so much and now you will not lose ever again. 

You will not allow yourself to lose again. 

Not here. Not like this. 

You can focus on that easily, pare yourself down to the essential components, finally turn mere evasion into _channeling_ —still here still here but so are you and you can spin it around and laugh while you’re doing it. 

You are in control now. 

Smiling faintly, you turn and slip out the door. A slight push sends the woman’s mind crumpling inwards and out of your way; more heavy-handed than you generally prefer, but you don’t have any attention to spare for your usual games. 

After all, you have a body to rescue. Or a brain, at least, and without a great deal of time, skill, and specialized equipment—none of which you currently possess—your body had better come along with it.

You paint a sort of panicked naïveté onto the woman’s face as you come running towards the scene, like someone who heard the struggle and now intends to get in the way in some misguided attempt to be a Good Samaritan. The janitor is still collapsed beside the fire escape as you go by; from the brief glance you spare for him, you’re not certain he’s breathing, and you don’t particularly care. As long as he isn’t able to call anyone. 

You’re panting a bit by the time you close in on Charge and your body; the woman is on her feet a lot, for work, but she’s no runner. That’s fine. It will make her look more vulnerable, and that’s what matters here—even if you were piloting an experienced hand-to-hand fighter, your own skills wouldn’t be calibrated for their muscle memory. They’d be useless against Charge. And the police have long cleared the area, at your telepathic encouragement, so no easily accessible firearms. A pity, but…

But this isn’t a fight anymore. Not until you get the glove back. 

She looks up as you approach, the panic on her face cut with sudden annoyance. “Get back,” she snaps automatically. “No civilians in the area.”

“Oh my God,” you say, circling around to peer at your body instead of backing away. “I heard the noise, but—” You suppress a laugh at the expression of disbelief she gives you. Not unexpected—but she doesn’t need to believe you. She just needs to believe it isn’t _just_ you. “I had to see what was going on,” you add, a little breathlessly. “Somebody might have…” You shake your head. “Somebody might have needed help.”

Disbelief turns into dawning horror, and you flash a split-second smirk. _Come on, now_ , you think, _believe in her. Believe she’s still fighting me. And believe I don’t really want to do this_. You wobble a little on your feet, to add to the illusion, and then take another step forwards. _Just a little more_ …

And now she’s angry again. Is that good or bad? You feel like you should know, knowledge is power is control you must control the situation you _must_ —

(You are losing control.)

Charge steps in front of you, your body still limp in her arms. You’re strangely relieved to see that it’s unconscious, though you discard the feeling as irrational an instant later. “Alright, Loren,” she hisses. “Let her go. You don’t need to do… whatever this is.” She grits her teeth. “We can talk about this.”

“I don’t understand…” Shaking your head in affected confusion, you throw a glance towards where she kicked your helmet. “I’m looking for—something,” you declare. Misdirect her. Let her think your control is shaky. Let her think she can make you hesitate. 

She moves again, this time to block your route towards the helmet. Perfect. “You can find it later,” she says, clearly trying to be disarming and just as clearly failing at it. Her smile is very, very forced. “Right now you need to go home, alright? Whatever you feel like you need to do, you need to go home.”

If only you had one. You nearly bare your teeth at her, in lieu of a laugh—but she needs to think this is helping. “I probably should,” you mumble instead, directing your gaze downward. You can see exactly where the armpiece is, and it’s almost in reach. “I probably should…”

Fingers twitching, you waver like you’re about to turn back the way you came—and then you duck under the hand she’s about to put on your shoulder and dive for the armpiece. 

“No!” Charge grabs for you—catches the base of your shirt—

You dive deeper into your host’s brain, into the instincts that know how much power her muscles _really_ have, and with a surge of desperation you tear all the limiters off. 

You are now free, shirtless, and on yet another time limit.

The armor is not fitted for your host’s arm. It was, however, fitted with the expectation you would regain some muscle. The woman’s arm is a little shorter and thicker than yours, but it’s more of an effort now not to break your borrowed fingers on the way in than to get the armpiece around it.

You don’t have any time to appreciate the victory, though, and not just because your host is running in the red. Charge is—

Headed straight at you?

As you slam into the ground, you realize that you’ve miscalculated. 

It’s depressingly—no, _infuriatingly_ obvious, and you have the vague feeling you’d normally be cursing in the back of your head right now. 

Charge’s first thought wouldn’t be that you turned off the parts of the brain keeping your host’s strength restrained. It would be that you’re possessing someone who’s been Boosted or Modded to superhuman levels in the first place. 

Someone who can take it.

You’re fairly sure you have a few broken bones now—maybe more than a few—but you manage to wriggle your hand in enough to lock the armor on. Charge’s fist comes towards you—

—you’re not there. You’re Loren again, leaning against a dumpster where Charge set you, and you nearly empty your stomach from the vertigo of it. You’ve never swapped this fast, not even with Morgan and certainly not from some haphazardly stolen vessel you’ll never see again afterwards. But you’re not done yet, not even with your stomach in open rebellion and your skull pounding like a jackhammer, because _those don’t matter they can’t matter you have to win_. 

You fling your awareness outwards again in a dizzying rush, looking for two of the most distinct mentalities you’ve ever touched. And they’re right there, aren’t they? 

The Rat King. The nanovores. Both as conveniently close as they can be now, with your second skin in pieces. Why did you do that? You could have won in a heartbeat, if you’d only had the courage. 

Now you have to improvise.

But you’re good at that.

You stretch out and you grab hold of them all and you dig your claws in in _in_ taste confusion taste hunger and you say—

 _wake up_. 

They do.

And you laugh. You laugh and laugh and— _why does it taste like blood_ —you reach out and remember an apartment building a long time ago and you remember that you have finer control now and _why can’t you stop laughing_?

(Why can’t you _stop_?)

It—

It doesn’t matter. Not now.

You brush your thoughts against the woman whose limp left hand is about to eat a hole in the street (if you can’t regain control) and (you need to regain control) you coax her up into the blood and the light, fingers over the strings. 

(no)

It won’t be long now.

(no no no no)

She just has to move her left hand.

(you need to stop)

The Rat King is screeching in your head, scrabbling and biting and tearing at the walls.

(you can’t stop you need—)

You push them back into the box.

(you need)

Charge backs away a step, hands curling in that telltale twitch.

(you need to stop you)

All you need is her boot. 

(no)

You give your former vessel one last push, and her left hand clamps down over Charge’s toes.

(no not like this not her not Julia)

You howl like the static in your ears and take the nanovores and surge outwards, you will control them you will devour you will _unmake_ —

(you can’t)

—up her legs in a winding trail up towards the ports on her palms—

(you can’t stop)

—just have to resist the need to spread out, just a few moments longer, no more hesitation no more delays—

(you have to)

—and the Rat King slips sideways through the box and onto your neck and they wrap their tails around your throat and they _pull_.

(yes finally here is your chance)

They pull you back.

(now)

You pull you back. 

( _ **stop**_ —)


End file.
